The world looks like one of those panoramic pictures,
letterbox shaped: viewed through a visor. Yawns burble up, are caught in an
inconvenienced palm, pushed away. All the house is busy or crowded, all the
garden sodden. A pitch is set in the polytunnel where the air is warmed to
torpidity. Seedlings stand upright in a row, an earwig scouts the book pile, a
fly makes a journey. The rest of us wilt. I see how the ash trees in the hedge
have slender reaching branches, good for whirring in a fast breeze: hear that
soft rustle, that low song: follow it into a dream, head on a pillow of folded
arms.
There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...
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